Then, his cold hand slipped under the hem of my evening gown and slid up my thigh—right in front of everyone.

I snapped.

I fought back with everything I had, raking my nails across his cheek.

"You animal!" I roared.

I glared at him. "Don't touch me. You disgust me."

"Oh, I disgust you?" His laughter turned sharp and cruel.

He snatched the agreement from my hand and signed it with a triumphant flourish.

Then, he yelled at one of his men, "Cut off all funding for her mother at the nursing home. Let our dear Principessa get a taste of what real disgust feels like."

He shot me a smug glance. "Your mother has one week of funding left. I suggest you use that time to think very carefully about crawling back to beg me."

He looked so certain—as if I would ever risk my mother's life.

But Julian…

When the nursing home kept calling with emergencies, I begged you—pleaded with you—to go see her.

You said, "Is the old hag dying? What new lie have you cooked up this time? If you want me to come home, stop cursing your own mother."

She passed away that night. The only person who ever truly loved me—gone.

So, no. You can't threaten me anymore.

I stared at his arrogant face and said, "Do whatever you want. I'll see you in court next month."

Then I grabbed the suitcase I had packed days ago and walked out.

Earlier that week, I had rented a cheap motel room outside the city. I was traveling light, so I settled in quickly.

Lying on the bed, finally alone, my phone lit up—it was my father.

I hesitated, then answered.

His voice exploded through the receiver. "Scarlett Connolly, do you have a death wish?! How dare you bring up separation with Julian—get your ass back here!"

I didn't want to go back.

While Mom was still on her sickbed, my father had started an affair with our neighbor, Moira. That house was theirs now.

I had no home.

But Mom's urn was still there. If I was leaving, I couldn't leave her behind.

The moment I stepped into that shabby apartment on the South Side of Chicago—before I could even take off my coat—my father slapped me, hard.

He had been hiding the news of Mom's death to keep milking money from Julian. Now that I had filed for separation, that cash flow was cut off.

He was drunk, barely able to stand, but the slap was heavy.

I fell to the floor.

Moira rushed over, but he shoved her back. "Don't you dare help her! Her mother dies, and this is how she repays me? By cutting off my money? How am I supposed to pay my debts? She's trying to kill me, that ungrateful brat!"

Moira rushed to play peacemaker. "Scarlett, don't be so impulsive. Julian is the Don of the Caldwell family. So many girls would kill for your position. I know it's hard, but the money is real. And the title of his wife is real."

I pushed myself up from the floor. "I've made my decision. Don't try to change my mind."

"I just came back for my things. I'll be gone as soon as I have them. When you two get married? Don't bother telling me."

I turned toward my old room.

My father spat on the floor behind me. "Ungrateful brat. What the hell do you think you can take? Or did you come crawling back for your mother?"

My heart sank.

The urn I kept on my bedside table—was gone.

I spun around. He was holding it.

My blood ran cold. I lunged for it. "Give it back. That's my mother. You have no right to touch—"

Crash.

The ashes scattered across the floor like gray smoke.

My father roared, "I have no right? You dare talk to me like that?!"

Something inside me broke.

I shoved him hard. "She was your wife—your wife for decades! Do you have any humanity left?!"

That sent him over the edge.

He grabbed a whiskey bottle and smashed it over my forehead.

Another sharp, cracking sound.

Blood trickled down my face, soaking my blouse.

Moira screamed, "Declan, stop! You'll kill her!"

I blinked through my blurry vision and looked up at him.

He just stared at me, a flicker of something that looked like enjoyment in his eyes. No remorse.

Then he took out his phone, snapped a picture of my bleeding face, and made a call.

His voice dripped with saccharine courtesy. "Julian, Scarlett's throwing another tantrum. Don't worry, I handled it. Taught her a lesson—take a look at the photo."

"You two have been in this alliance for ten years, after all. And back then, it was all me. I was the one who made her dump you."

"But when you were shot in that firefight, it was Scarlett who—"

Julian cut him off coldly. "My survival had nothing to do with her. What did she do?"

My father faltered. "Right, right… but she did—"

Julian sighed. "You want money?"

My father's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes, those gambling debts—"

I could hear Cassidy's voice chime in on the line. "Julian, Scarlett isn't perfect, but don't drag her mother into this."

"You're always so kind," Julian said.

Then, the frost in his tone returned. "Mr. Connolly, if you want my money, have Scarlett come crawling back to beg for it herself."

Click.

My father cursed. "I beat you half to death, and he still doesn't care. Saving him back then was a complete waste!"

"I don't care what you have to do—get me some money! I'm drowning in debt. If you can't, I'll sell you to another outfit. It's that simple."

I felt nothing.

I just knelt, cupping the ashes and gently placing them back into the shattered urn.

Then I picked it up, held it tight, and walked out in silence.